Man Alive
by Anne Hedonia
Summary: Post-ep for "DeadAlive". Doggett hadn't expected to feel this bad, or this much.


TITLE: Man Alive  
AUTHOR: Anne Hedonia  
RATING: PG-13 (Few bad words)  
SPOILERS: Great biggun's for "DeadAlive"  
ARCHIVE: Not to Gossamer - I'll do that. Anywhere else,  
please! Just lemme know.  
CLASSIFICATION: Post-ep for "DeadAlive", Doggett POV  
KEYWORDS: S/D, DSR, UST  
DISCLAIMERS: Me no own.  
SUMMARY: He hadn't expected to feel this bad...or this much.  
  
AUTHORS NOTE: That look on Doggett's face as he stepped into  
(and quickly out of) the hospital room - man oh man, I just  
had to make it all better. So here's nothin' but wish  
fulfillment.  
  
FAIR WARNING: This is a fairly innocent, somewhat mushy S/D  
story. Lots of Doggett pining, and not necessarily in vain.  
'Dipper field day. If you're not one of these new-fangled  
'Dippers, and any of these elements is already causing your  
'Shipper hackles to rise, PLEASE save us both a lot of upset  
and don't read any further. Seriously, step AWAY from the  
fic, and click on over to Xemplary where you'll be safe.  
Try to remind yourself that *nothing* you read on AXTC (or  
see on Fox, for that matter) is actually really happening.  
  
Endless beta thanks to Azar Suerte and FirePhile for keeping  
me honest(although squeamishness was overruled. Sorry, A!)  
Constructive feedback - of any opinion - is groveled for at  
ahedonia@yahoo.com. Flames have a funny way of getting  
deleted.  
  
------------  
  
John Doggett is sitting alone, in the farthest corner of a  
dark, windowless bar. His suit jacket has been ditched and  
his sleeves are rolled up, tie removed and forgotten. A man  
so dressed should look relaxed, but Doggett knows he  
doesn't.  
  
When he entered an hour and a half ago, there were plenty of  
empty stools and seats up front, but he didn't choose one.  
He chose a roomy booth in the back for, paradoxically, both  
its isolation and its expansiveness - he deserved all the  
luxuries he could get tonight, he thought sourly.  
  
By now, the place is hopping, full of loud, hairy customers  
and their cheaply-dressed women, spilling over with  
testosterone, piss and vinegar. "Born to be Bad" blares  
unapologetically on the jukebox, while videos of sports  
events play on ignored video screens overhead. Through the  
eye-stinging miasma of cigarette smoke, several of the  
patrons watch the booth Doggett occupies with irritated  
longing - one man taking up a booth that size seems more  
than a little rude. Doggett is not aware of this, ignoring  
everything but the bottom of his glass.  
  
He's giving himself this one time to get drunk and forget  
about her, that's what he's doing. One chance to get all  
this grief and loss out of his system, before he has to suck  
it up and accept it. He was stupid to let himself get to  
this point and now it's his own fault that it's so hard. He  
runs over a certain, very recent scene in his mind, with  
masochistic precision: Scully draped over a  
nearly-cadaverous Mulder in his hospital bed, her eyes  
brimming with utter joy at his awakening. Mulder's ruined  
hand caressing her hair and muttering little jokes that make  
her laugh and sniffle. That excruciating moment when Scully  
looks up and sees him, Doggett, intruding. Her watery eyes  
locking with his crestfallen ones, and him unable to hide  
his dismay, disappointment...hurt. He couldn't back away  
fast enough from that scene - that universe - that no longer  
had any need for him at all.  
  
Doggett takes another determined slug of scotch. Before he  
saw the two of them in that room, it had never been real,  
you know? Of course he always *knew* the feelings building  
up in him were doomed, but before he walked in on that scene  
there was at least a far-fetched chance, a chance that this  
thing between them wasn't everything it seemed to be. Mulder  
himself wasn't even real until now. He was just an  
abstraction, a far-off goal, the way - he thinks, with no  
little shame - to get her attention.  
  
Doggett's forehead falls gently forward, to be propped up by  
the tips of his fingers - he's not proud of his recent  
feelings and behavior, like his opposition to exhuming  
Mulder, or to everyone's optimism while they kept him on  
life support. He tries to exonerate himself, at least in his  
own mind: he *was* genuinely interested in protecting Scully  
from being hurt, he thinks. He was genuinely interested in  
protecting the dignity of a man after his death. But in his  
heart of hearts he sees the deeper truth: that the closer  
her partner got to consciousness, the more silent panic  
Doggett felt. He could no longer pretend that a  
flesh-and-blood man named Mulder didn't exist, and that that  
man didn't hold claim to the most heartbreakingly special  
woman John had ever met.  
  
But he's seen it now, and there's no denying it. He shakes  
his head in a vain attempt to banish that thought and,  
failing, tilts back his head and his glass to let a bit more  
scotch slide hotly down his throat. He realizes now that as  
Mulder got closer to living, his own hopes got closer to  
dying. And now, he thinks grimly, they're R.I.P.  
  
Doggett glances to one side and catches his own reflection  
in a Budweiser mirror. Jesus, what a sad sack. Every feature  
of his face is drooping so badly he looks like a bloodhound.  
Suddenly he feels a flash of anger and hot impatience. God  
dammit, ya big pussy...why is this drinking session even  
happening? How the hell did you *think* things were going to  
turn out? That at the end of all this, she'd throw her arms  
around your neck and declare her undying devotion? That you'  
d sit atop your trusty horse and tip your white cowboy hat  
at Mulder before you rode off into the sunset with her -  
because, after all, even though it was Mulder she couldn't  
live without, you were her Man of Action, right? Her  
tireless superhero, her savior in gleaming armor, her big  
dumb Dudley Do-Right...  
  
Oh, and let's not even *talk* about the baby thing.  
*Jesus*. The hell you been smoking, anyway?  
  
He signals the waitress for another, ignoring a pointed  
glare from some big-bellied bubba who clearly wants to sit  
down. He's vaguely annoyed until he thinks of the look Dana  
Scully would give that guy, and a slow, crooked smile warms  
his features. 300 pounds of beer-fueled blubber wouldn't  
stand a chance against that one *eyebrow*...  
  
The light behind his smile doesn't last long, however. He  
has no future with the owner of that eyebrow - the tiny and  
steely, delicate and luminous woman behind that look.  
Instead, she's given herself to a man who - he can tell -  
infuriates her and runs her ragged and tests her faith at  
every juncture. Makes her prove her devotion, then rewards  
her with more trials. Someone who, though good and  
honorable, is too self-centered to realize what he's got  
until it's kidnapped and lost under an ice floe in  
Antarctica somewhere and he's got to bust his ass like some  
truant fuck-up to get it back. Doggett's jaw sets grimly,  
and through his growing fog he knows one thing is true: it  
would go against every instinct in his body to ever treat  
her that way.  
  
His next drink comes and he's got it in his hand before the  
waitress has even let it touch the table. She casts him a  
longing look before she leaves, but John has no knowledge of  
it. He's too busy thinking about what to do now. He leans  
back in the booth and sighs: as far as he's concerned,  
there's little question - he has to leave the X-Files. No  
matter how important this fight of hers may have become to  
him, he knows he couldn't keep his feelings under wraps if  
he were forced to stay and watch the heartwarming reunion.  
Unfortunately, Kersh's transfer offer is long gone, but even  
if it were still available, he certainly wouldn't do  
anything to please that crooked bastard anymore. It's okay,  
he's got enough friends and former colleagues in good places  
to find somewhere to go. Leaving is the wise thing to do, he  
thinks. It's the only thing to do...isn't it?  
  
His eyes fall shut, as his conviction wavers. The thought of  
not seeing her any more makes his heart rip. He can't stand  
the idea of not knowing every day whether or not she's all  
right, or if there's anything he can do to help her. He  
couldn't stand being unable to *act* in the service of  
keeping her safe. Of course, she's not unprotected - she's  
got Mulder now, but...shit. That feels even worse. His eyes  
open and stare dejectedly.  
  
And it's not just protecting her - though that's much of  
it - he thinks about other things he'd miss. Like feeling  
the change in the office when she sweeps into it in the  
morning, crisp and businesslike yet undeniably feminine.  
It's like a woman's presence has no business being there,  
until she gets there...and then she's exactly what the place  
needed. Or being able to smell her shampoo while reading a  
file over her shoulder. 'Hell, while reading it over her  
*head*,' he thinks with a tiny smirk. That perfumey stuff  
she uses...it's familiar, but he still hasn't placed it yet.  
He thinks dimly that it's not fair to have to leave before  
he knows what it reminds him of. His thoughts slow to a  
crawl as he lingers over a specific moment of file-sharing  
in his mind, visualizing the temptation of her neck, of her  
smooth white skin lit by the faint glow from the basement  
window and his mouth so near as he pretends to read...it  
would take nothing to lean over, close the distance and...  
  
Suddenly an appreciative roar of laughter from a group over  
in the corner startles Doggett, his recoiling muscles  
yanking him out of his preferred other world. He glares  
angrily at the rowdy bunch, pissed at being intruded upon  
just because some yahoo managed to make a funny.  
  
Another glance around the room confirms for Doggett that  
it's time for him to leave. This is no longer the bar he  
entered way back when - hasn't been for some time - and  
besides, that Neanderthal who was formerly concerned with  
seating arrangements is getting that 'why don't we step  
outside' look in his eye. Doggett's not interested in  
wasting his Marine combat training on some big dumb slab of  
meat just now. He gets up to go, making sure to drain the  
rest of his scotch when...  
  
...when *she* walks in.  
  
Doggett usually prides himself on not letting anyone know  
when they've gotten the drop on him, but in this case he's  
an open book. It takes him a second to realize his eyes are  
like dinner plates and his jaw is hanging open like he's a  
trout or something. He modifies his expression quickly, then  
can't help but squint in disbelief. How in *hell* did she  
find him here?  
  
She looks so clean and pretty compared to the trappings of  
this shithole, standing there in the doorway in her simple,  
dark green maternity suit, removing her overcoat as she  
waits for her eyes to adjust. Once they do, she eyes the  
room with a kind of suspicion that makes Doggett want to  
laugh out loud and cheer. Even pregnant, she's the toughest  
thing in here. He marvels at her, despite the despair  
tugging at his feelings - how can he be so down and fucked  
up and still feel like this when she walks in?  
  
Her eyes light on him, and the jig's up. She's walking over  
to where he stands. A sinking feeling takes over Doggett,  
and the reason for his being here leaps up even more clearly  
in his head. She knows, he thinks irrationally. She saw that  
look on my face and she knows and she's here and I don't  
want a pity talk. Jesus, don't let it be about that. He  
wants so badly to recapture his momentum, to just brush by  
her politely, make some excuse, and leave.  
  
But then she's there, right in front of him, looking up with  
those big, solemn blue jewels...and he'll do whatever she  
wants.  
  
"Agent Doggett."  
  
"Agent Scully."  
  
A long, stiff moment passes. His body feels ridiculously  
tense, and a thought occurs to him out of nowhere: Jergen's,  
he thinks suddenly, irrationally. Her shampoo smells like  
Jergen's lotion, that stuff his gramma used to use. He  
snorts softly, a quiet laugh that only makes sense to him.  
Great, I've figured it out. Now I can leave forever.  
  
The silence becomes too much. Doggett rubs the back of his  
neck. "What on earth brings you here, Agent Scully? Don't  
tell me you're a regular."  
  
Doggett can scarcely believe it when Scully smiles -  
actually *smiles* - at the little joke he's made. Boy, he  
thinks grimly, having Mulder around must just make  
everything better.  
  
"Hardly," she says. "But this place does have a reputation  
for being a cop bar. I thought that perhaps, if you needed  
somewhere to lay low for a while, it might call your name."  
  
For his part, Doggett is just astonished. "I had no idea  
this was a cop bar." He stares in mild horror at the  
assembled patrons. "*This* is D.C.'s finest? Jesus, we are  
so screwed."  
  
This time Scully laughs - laughs! - a heartfelt chuckle that  
is as close to out-and-out hilarity as Doggett's ever heard  
from her. His feelings are caught between a wave of  
satisfaction at hearing her respond to him, and the  
unpleasant knowledge that her good mood probably isn't his  
doing. But then again, she's genuinely smiling at him  
now...maybe he's being too hard on himself.  
  
She gestures to his former seat and he finds himself  
sitting. The waitress appears, takes Scully's order for a  
Coke. "So...what's on your mind, Agent?" asks Doggett, hoping  
that poker face of his has decided to return.  
  
She folds her hands demurely on the table in front of her.  
"I just thought we ought to talk a bit...about Agent Mulder."  
  
Doggett feels a lump of something like anger in his throat.  
What, not only does he get to have you, I gotta talk about  
him over tea, too? "What about him?" He inspects the surface  
of the table for flaws. He finds many.  
  
Scully accepts her Coke from the waitress. "I'm concerned  
that, now that Mulder is back, your assumption is going to  
be that there's no place for you here."  
  
Doggett meets Scully's eyes. "That's not an assumption,  
Agent Scully, that's just pure observation."  
  
She reddens slightly. "Agent Doggett, let me assure you that  
the way you saw us back in that hospital room is not the way  
we conduct ourselves while on a ca-"  
  
"It doesn't matter." interrupts Doggett, instantly  
regretting how harsh he sounds. Make it about work, he tells  
himself, it's just about work. "It doesn't matter," he says  
more gently. "The point is you two are a team - *more* than  
a team - and I'm always gonna be playing catch up or tryin'  
to decode the language you two already speak. You brought me  
on to find Mulder. He's found. You don't need me any more."  
Doggett hopes he doesn't sound like the big baby he feels  
like.  
  
"Is that so?" Scully stirs the ice in her glass with her  
straw. "Don't *I* get any say about it?" Doggett's not sure  
if it's his imagination, but she actually seems to be  
pouting. "You said it yourself: soon I won't be there to  
back Mulder up, and the X-Files itself is under fire."  
  
"And you told me very recently to get out while I still  
could. Looks like we've switched places."  
  
Scully leans absently to one side to let a biker type make a  
pool shot, then rights herself, never once seeming the least  
bit awkward. "Do you know how many times Mulder and I have  
tried to get each other to quit the X-Files?" she asks,  
reminiscing. "It occurred to me right after you and I had  
that talk. It's almost like an expression of affection for  
us. We don't expect it to have any effect - we just always  
wish we could relieve each other of the awful burden of this  
job."  
  
She places her glass back on the table. "It was after I said  
that to you that I realized that you had really made  
yourself a part of the team. Nobody who has to be *asked* to  
leave the X-Files is ever going anywhere."  
  
Doggett blinks. How did she do that? How did she take her  
insistence that he leave and turn it into proof of him  
belonging? And that "expression of affection" remark...  
  
He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and  
forefinger, trying to fight his urge to do anything to  
please her. He can't agree to this. This match-up is absurd.  
Planned torture. And besides, there's something else nagging  
at the back of his mind. He can't explain it, but something  
about her entreaty feels like she's not telling the whole  
story. Something feels...off.  
  
Scully leans forward, elbows on the table. Doggett tries not  
to react to the deeper view of her pregnancy-enhanced  
cleavage he's afforded. He briefly remembers how much he had  
enjoyed that particular change when it had happened to his  
wife, way back when.  
  
"I know that you haven't been recognized enough for your  
help...and a lot of that's been my fault. Let me assure you  
that, really, it's been invaluable." He sees her eyes  
soften, barely perceptibly, but enough to cause that  
familiar melting sensation through his chest, and regions  
south. "You're an excellent agent, and for anyone to devote  
himself so selflessly to another person's quest...it's just  
more than I could have asked for." She's looking straight  
into his face, and John finds himself drowning in the  
attention. "I know I've occasionally been a royal pain in  
the ass..." she says, causing them both to grin. "But I have  
to admit...you've proven yourself, Agent Doggett." She  
pauses, weighing her next words. "I trust you," she says  
finally. "And I don't say that lightly."  
  
Doggett believes her. His eyes travel over her incandescent  
face, and see honesty there, and the afore-mentioned trust.  
Suddenly he feels ashamed. Selfless my ass, he thinks.  
You've never met anyone more self-interested. You, the  
strongest woman I've ever known, crumpled on the floor of  
that hospital lab and started crying and my heart broke and  
you let me hold you and since that minute I haven't wanted  
to do anything else.  
  
He smiles faintly at her. She smiles warmly back. She seems  
totally unprepared for his response.  
  
"I'm sorry, Agent Scully."  
  
"For what?"  
  
Doggett's face is sadness itself. The finality of his answer  
is evident in his tone: "For listening to you say something  
so kind to me, and then still havin' to say no."  
  
Scully is momentarily adrift. She searches the tabletop  
restlessly for her response, to no avail. "That's it? No  
discussion, no possible compromise, just...that's your  
answer?"  
  
Doggett leans in, wishing he could put a hand atop hers.  
"Agent Scully, your life, and everyone in it, is back where  
it's supposed to be. Maybe I got a lack of vision or  
somethin', but I can't see myself as anything but an  
impediment to that."  
  
He leans back slightly, preparing himself for the  
businesslike goodbye. It's his turn to be surprised.  
  
She won't lift her head to look at him. He feels a fury  
simmering off her that he hadn't expected, but when she  
speaks, her voice is anything but strong. "Well then. I  
should stop wasting your time," she manages.  
  
Doggett can feel the crease in his brow deepening. "I just  
think it's best...for everybody," he says, baffled by Scully's  
refusal to look at him, after all the eye contact of their  
conversation. He could have expected disappointment, or  
disapproval, or even acceptance, but this...She's digging in  
her purse now, and throwing dollar bills onto the table for  
her drink.  
  
"I disagree. I came here to let you know that the X-Files  
still needs you, Agent Doggett, but if this isn't where you  
want to be, I guess I can't change that." She spits the  
words, as though glad her mouth is rid of them.  
  
She's grabbing her coat from beside her and scooting  
gracelessly out of the booth. He can't fathom the idea that  
he's upset her this much. He can't really fathom that he's  
upset her at all.  
  
She's on her feet, jostling through the crowd to get to the  
door. Doggett shakes off his surprise and exits the booth  
himself, managing to grab her elbow before she's gotten too  
far. "Agent Scully?"  
  
She turns and glares at him before she can stop herself,  
before she realizes what she'll show. Her eyes flash from  
behind swinging strands of hair, and he sees her problem:  
tears. Her eyes have become flooded, threatening to spill.  
Doggett can only squint at her in confusion as she  
wordlessly yanks her small arm free and continues on toward  
the door.  
  
And suddenly, Doggett knows what it is.  
  
He can see it clearly now. He's as sure as if he just read  
it all in a memo from God. It occurs to him suddenly that  
he's made a leap, a real X-Files Mulder-type leap. Hell, he  
thinks in amazement, maybe he's getting the hang of this  
after all.  
  
He can congratulate himself later. Right now she's made it  
out the door.  
  
Scully's wading through the chill of the parking lot as  
quickly as she's able, pulling on her coat. Doggett trots  
after in his shirt sleeves. "Agent Scully!" he calls. He  
slows and considers how to catch her attention. "Agent  
Scully, I'm lookin' for the truth!"  
  
She stops but doesn't turn. She calls back darkly: "I  
thought you'd decided to leave that to us."  
  
Doggett reaches her, his breath congealing in frozen puffs.  
"I need a very specific truth, that only you can give me."  
  
He waits as she wipes ruthlessly at her eyes with her  
sleeve, then turns to halfway to facing him, barely  
cooperating.  
  
"I need you to tell me why you really came here tonight," he  
says softly, his quiet voice belying the pounding in his  
chest. His heart is racing, and not from jogging.  
  
He watches her all-business façade go back into place again,  
watches it comfort her. "I came here to try and keep things  
going smoothly between team members. And to assure myself  
that my partner of seven years would have some back up."  
  
"I don't doubt that's part of it," he says, soothing. "But I  
don't think it's the whole answer."  
  
"Are you seeing conspiracies now too, Agent Doggett?"  
  
"Just connections."  
  
"Agent Dogg--" She's interrupted by Doggett's large hands on  
her upper arms, gently turning her around to face him. She  
looks up at him with wide eyes. They stand close, their  
frozen breath commingling. Doggett's pulse races faster as  
he thinks he sees her start to tremble. Maybe it's the cold,  
he thinks. Maybe it's not.  
  
"I've never known you to shy away from the facts when they  
were important," he admonishes gently. "I don't think you  
oughta start now."  
  
She's tearing up again as his hands remain on her arms. She  
turns her head, side to side, in a miserable attempt to  
hide. "What do you want from me?" she nearly whimpers.  
  
Doggett knows that he has to be careful, but he also knows  
what she's revealed to him. The fear coursing through him is  
practically freezing his limbs and mouth in place, but he  
forces himself on. "I wanna see you be honest with  
yourself," he begins. "I wanna know why you came here  
tonight. I want you to tell me the real reason you left the  
bedside of a man you've spent six months searching heaven  
and earth for, just to come talk to me about office  
politics." She looks up at him in surprise and mild  
irritation. He gives her a look of sheerest acceptance, and  
affection.  
  
"You said nobody could leave the X-Files once their heart  
was in it. Well, I guess I'm the exception. I was feelin'  
like I needed to leave..." He runs one trembling hand gently  
along her arm, clasps her small hand by its pinky side.  
"...*because* my heart is in it."  
  
She looks down in confusion at his hand and hers, then meets  
his eyes, surprise registering across her features. Doggett  
nods slowly, cautiously. Here goes.  
  
"You also said once that the truth may hurt, but it's the  
only thing that matters." He's acutely aware that his face  
is within inches of hers. "I'm sorry, but I can't stick  
around here hopin' the truth is what I think it is. I need  
to know. I need you to tell me what's goin' on inside you."  
  
Her mouth tugs downward as her tears intensify. She exhales  
on a beseeching look. She's shaking and tears are spilling  
over onto her cheeks. And Doggett can see she's as brave as  
ever.  
  
"I know this is no small thing..." he whispers. "...but for me  
to stay, I need to know."  
  
Scully inhales and exhales, slowly and deeply.  
  
"When I saw how you looked in Mulder's room, I realized you  
might be leaving," she breathes. "And suddenly I was scared,  
because I realized..." she starts to choke up. She presses  
her lips together to regain her control. "I realized I didn't   
want you to. That I *don't* want you to..."  
  
She ventures a look up into his eyes - when she speaks  
again, her voice is barely above a whisper. "...for reasons  
that I am not supposed to be feeling."  
  
She breathes out hard, letting a small sob escape. She looks  
up and sees that, though encouraged, a faint question still  
lingers in Doggett's eyes, and a smile sneaks onto her face  
unbidden. "My heart is in it, too," she whispers. Doggett  
feels his face practically light from within. She smiles  
wider, then shakes her head disbelievingly as her lids fall  
shut, tears sparkling in her lashes and slipping down her  
face. "God help me," she murmurs.  
  
He never would have believed that watching Scully cry could  
ever have his stomach flipping with excitement, but it is.  
He can't help but feel bad for causing it, in a weird sort  
of way. He lifts one hand to her cheek, and ventures to  
wipe away a tear with his thumb. Though she startles  
slightly, she doesn't move away. "Well, I gotta say, He's  
sure been on your side so far." he murmurs.  
  
"So what about you?" Scully looks suddenly uncertain.  
  
Doggett grins crookedly, his voice a honeyed rumble.  
"Sweetheart, I ain't goin' nowhere."  
  
Scully gives him a rueful smile, relaxes slightly, shakes  
her head. "Well then, God help you, too."  
  
Doggett snorts a quiet laugh, one that belies his reeling  
mind. She's right, he thinks - what the hell are they doing?  
And yet he's so relieved to be doing it, whatever it is...  
  
His hand gains confidence on her face, the move to wipe her  
tears becoming a bolder caress. She leans into it. Doggett  
feels a stab of unbearable arousal as her eyes drop to focus  
on his lips, and then slide slowly back up his face. The  
heat of the moment melts his knees and his heart, and  
threatens to have the opposite effect on another part of  
him.  
  
Her expression turns serious. She regains a tiny bit of her  
usual composure. "I have no idea what will happen," she says  
softly. "I can't promise anything."  
  
Doggett's look darkens imperceptibly, though he nods in  
understanding. "Don't promise anything to me," he says.  
"Promise yourself."  
  
Appreciative amazement fills her face. Their eyes meet, a  
gentle battle of blue against blue.  
  
An moment later she's gone.  
  
Doggett has no idea how long it's been since her taillights  
faded from view, or how long he's been standing here like a  
fool staring into the place where he last saw them. If the  
cold biting into his bones is any indication, it's been  
quite a while. He doesn't much care. He wonders vaguely if  
the big, sloppy, shit-eating grin on his face might, if left  
in place long enough, turn into something permanent.  
  
Evidently, it might.  
  
------------   



End file.
